


From the second to the first

by froovygirl



Category: Ice Dancing RPF, RPF - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Closure, F/M, Hurt, No HEA, T deserves better, on a Stepford boy, spite-writing, well maybe for T, working out my resentment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 16:04:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21322909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/froovygirl/pseuds/froovygirl
Summary: After Scott's unexpected announcement, Tessa makes one of her own. The chintzy retirement video doesn't exist in this world.
Relationships: Scott Moir/Tessa Virtue, Scott Moir/others
Comments: 20
Kudos: 65





	From the second to the first

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah… this. 
> 
> This is my first V/M fic – heck, my first any kind of fic – in years. Back in the day of LiveJournal, I was a full-on fangirl, writing lots of V/M fic under the pseudonym KimmyFroo. I’ve followed their careers since before that first gold medal in Vancouver, mesmerized by their grace, their connection, their seemingly boundless talent. As an American, I rooted for them over Davis/White, who trained in my hometown, for crying out loud, and the Shibutanis, who I loved but didn’t revere. I was all in for V/M.
> 
> It was the way they looked at each other, the way they protected each other, the “no matter what, I love you” that kept me riveted through the debacle of Sochi and the ultimate triumph of PyeongChang. 
> 
> I wanted them to be together, of course. How could you not? They were the ultimate tease, and even Scott’s 5,000 girlfriends couldn’t shatter the illusion. He never changed. He was still supportive Scott, passionate Scott, occasionally stupid but lovable Scott who was stupidly in love with Tessa – whether it was as a best friend or something else. 
> 
> Then came the WOF. “First partner.” The interviews, the coldness, the retirement video, the lack of giving a shit, the lack of effort, the lack of Scott Moir being Scott Moir. He changed. He Stepford-ed, and I'm not here to watch him disrespect the partner who stood by him for 22 years. I remain in awe that Tessa has kept her composure throughout this spectacle. 
> 
> So, for the first time in years, I wrote. It’s spite-writing, I’ll admit, a way to change the stars fictionally for Tessa so she could end it on her terms, at least in my made-up world. And, frankly, it’s a way for me to purge myself of my resentment. 
> 
> Disclosure: This is an original, fictional work that depicts real-life humans in a manner that should not be construed as fact. No harm, no foul, people.

_November 23, 2019_  
_St. John’s, NL, Canada  
_Post-Rock the Rink performance__

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It almost slips by him in St. John’s, the rapid-fire inquiry from a local reporter directed at Tessa. His body is still flushed from their performance, the chill of the ice thrumming through his veins, the tickle of her hair, her fingers, her nose painting his skin like wildfire. 

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He impatiently scans the crowd for his “first skating partner,” as he keeps referring to Jackie when it’s not “my fiancé” or “the soon-to-be Mrs. Scott Moir,” as the word “final” reverberates in his mind.

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He doesn’t want to think about it. 

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He thought he’d seen Tessa’s nose flare almost imperceptibly during the Walk of Fame ceremony in Ilderton, the first time he’d pulled “first” out of the air, but she’d rebounded nicely with the “need a +1” post, hadn’t she? And ever since, she’s been the public embodiment of supportive/happy-for-him/nothing-to-see-here partner. 

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There’s one thing, though. They don’t hug. 

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Not in warmups, where he can still get a smidge of a smile out of her. Sometimes. Or after talks at schools, business mixers and official events, where, he’s noticed, the green of her eyes settle everywhere but him. 

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He’d expected those things. Hell, he might deserve the shade (“what the FUCK, Scott?” Jackie had hissed when Tessa showed up at the WOF, demure and stunning in white lace); he _definitely_ deserves her coolness. Despite her unshakable poise, he’d known this tour would be a clusterfuck of passive-aggressive, maddeningly professional Tess, a pissed off fandom that continued to melt down like someone had thrown a goddamn nuclear bomb into it and the ongoing iciness from certain skaters who, apparently, had become "Team Tessa" practically overnight.

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Something changed after Ilderton. And, dammit, would it kill her to hug him before performances? Even though his life was heading steadfastly toward what he’s always wanted, those moments when they came together to meld breathing and heartbeats had always been his anchor. 

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He misses them. Most days, he misses her, too. 

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But with Tess being Tess, who’s forgiven more of his garbage than he cares to remember in 22 years, he believes their balance will eventually be restored. His upcoming marriage would affect their partnership, _of course,_ but this is what a business partnership is about, right? Then there are the costs associated with maintaining two households in different countries which, for him, means a new “enthusiasm” for their sponsorships. He rather likes the souped-up Hondas, and the free flights on Air Canada are definitely a plus. And Beijing 2022 is still on the table, so they’ll forge through the bitterness and find a way. They will. They _will._

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Jackie is waving brightly to him and making her way over when he catches the tail-end of the reporter’s innocuous question: “… considering Beijing at all?”

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Tessa glances at Jackie with a nod of hello – always playing nicely, his Tess – before responding. Just after he gathers his bag and takes his first step away from her, not bothering to say goodbye, he hears his partner’s reply: “Afraid not. As of today, I’m officially retired.”

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They’re not even settled in the fancy Honda DMX they’re driving to the airport when Jackie snarks, “Did you forget to tell me you’re retiring after the tour? Not that I mind, but I thought Miss Perfect would want a press conference in front of fucking Trudeau and the Arkells.” 

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There must be something in his glare that relays how mother-fucking gobsmacked he is or maybe his face looks as devastated as he feels. Before he can even gather himself, Jackie is staring with wide eyes. “Holy shit. You didn’t know.” She chuckles almost gleefully to herself. “What the _fuck?_ She didn’t tell you!”

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Scott slams the key into the ignition with far more energy than required and waits until the squeal of the Honda’s tires subsides before he answers, shell-shocked.

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“No, she fucking didn’t.”

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\-----------------

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He’d been to Florida and back for Thanksgiving before Tessa responded to his five missed calls and 11 texts. She’s been avoiding him; he knows this from Instagram – since when does he have to check _fucking Instagram_ to know what she’s up to – that she’d spent a leisurely post-tour week with family and friends, and even put up some Christmas lights. 

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Since he usually hangs the strings on her roof so she doesn’t break her neck, he vaguely wonders who manned the ladder this year.

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Who’s he kidding? He’s been fuming since Tessa’s news from that St. John’s newspaper went viral, officially hanging up their skates without his input. When media in Canada and the U.S. had deluged their agent for Scott’s comment, they’d crafted a hurried, everything’s-good statement that celebrated their “22 years together as champions, business partners and friends” and looked ahead to their “respective lives and careers apart as Scott Moir, Canadian icon and skating instructor, prepares to marry his first skating partner, and Tessa Virtue, Canadian icon and successful entrepreneur, pursues numerous professional opportunities.”

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It doesn’t mention whether they’ll skate together again. He’s assumed, after the wedding passes and they regain their equilibrium as Tessa-and-Scott, that even if there’s no Olympics, they’ll continue the lucrative business of tours and sponsorships. Why wouldn’t they?

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They don’t speak until they meet for coffee at a London cafe a few weeks before Christmas. It’s inconvenient; he’s needed in Florida to nail down wedding details and get the new house move-in ready, but the Virtue-Moir show must go on. They need to move past this; he needs to move past it. 

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“Long time no see,” he jokes, trying to break the ice as she sits, beautiful as ever even with her skin bare and hair shorter than he’s seen it in years. This, he thinks fleetingly, is the Tess I miss. No sheen, just the girl he fell in love with. 

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He stops himself, focuses on the air around them, charged with tension. 

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“How are you, Scott?” It isn’t a throwaway greeting; she seems to genuinely be asking as she fiddles with the stem of her cup. 

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“I’m great. Busy. Working on the Florida house, getting the wedding together. Destination weddings are a pain in the ass.” 

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Tessa nods in agreement, takes a sip as her eyes settle on his ear. 

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This isn’t getting any easier, but he pushes forward. “How about you? I haven’t heard much.” He gives her the half-smile she used to say could charm a tightwad out of his last cent. “Anything you need to tell me? I’d hate to be the last to know if something really big happened.”

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It’s a pointed dig, but Tessa doesn’t flinch, merely raises the cup to her lips as if she plans to drink the entire morning away. Her gaze shifts to his forehead. Closer to his eyes, but… not. 

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Tessa calculates; they could parry like unruly children before they dive into the muck, but she’s so. Fucking. Tired. Of this shit. 

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She needs to move past it. Past _him._

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“It is what it is. I meant it. I’m done.”

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“You’re done.” For the first time, a frisson of unease wriggles up his spine. Whereas he plops his emotions on his sleeve, bare-naked, reserve is Tessa’s defense. He can usually read through her façade of uber-calm, but she’s a blank slate right now. “You’re saying competition – Beijing – is out? What are you thinking, then? A few shows to keep the sponsors happy? Jackie thinks we should sign with an agent in the states, too. We can make more on the speaker’s circuit and still do the commentary gigs here…”

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Tessa abandons her cup, levels those green eyes to his nose and something inside stills because he _knows._

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“All of it,” she says, calm. Too calm. “Skating. Sponsors. Tessa and Scott.”

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If he lets the anger flare, maybe what’s really crawling into his throat will be extinguished. “Skating and sponsors _is_ Tessa and Scott, since we’re not competing anymore,” he snaps. “Which I was the fucking _last_ person to know. We’ve discussed this. We have _commitments._ We have _contracts.”_ He slops a spoonful of sugar into his coffee, the clink of his spoon adding to his ire. He’s got a wedding in the Maldives, homes in two countries, a diamond the size of his gold medals to pay for now. A goddamn skate shop in Komoka isn’t going to support all that and his cousins, uncle, wife.

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Tessa is the lynchpin of it all. He knows it. She’s _his_ lynchpin. He knows that, too, has known it every minute as he’s dragged her through his dysfunctional, immature, defective bullshit the last year. 

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“So you’re saying because I’m getting married and some things have to change, you’re walking away?” He hears his voice rising, the hostility coursing through him as his heart rages and, god, he’s indignant and pissed, but those are just poor camouflage for the fear that’s got him nearly paralyzed. 

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All except his mouth. 

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“I can’t even fucking _believe_ you, Tessa! I found what I’ve been looking for, I’m _happy,_ and because you can’t get over your own _shit,_ you’re gonna piss us away after 22 years? Without even bothering to discuss it with me, like we always have.” He’s pretty sure he’s shouting, but what the hell, it’s London and everyone who hasn’t been living in a cave knows they’ve been on rocky ground the last year, so why not have it out right here. 

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She hasn’t said anything. She’s still looking past his shoulder, or at the chickenpox scar on his forehead, or whatever the fuck she concentrates on so she’s doesn’t have to look him in the eye. Not only does that piss him the hell right off, but it terrifies him more. 

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“So I have no say?” he asks, incredulous and sarcastic. “You can’t handle that I’m with someone who makes me happy and you can’t find someone, so that’s it? Or am I gonna see on your social media that you want to do ‘Skating with the Stars’ in bumfuck, Saskatoon in a few years?” 

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She sits across from him, placid and quiet, as he spits his fear, practically begging for a reaction, a sign that she cares. The fingers he’s felt in his a million times, stroking his palm, brushing hair from his eyes, lay still on the table. She takes a breath, speaks. 

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“You’re wrong. I can handle your wedding and your marriage. I’ve been handling it for some time,” Tessa clarifies. “But I’m not going to anymore. I’m tired of your happiness coming at my expense. It took me awhile to get it, Scott, but I finally did. You love me, just like I love you; I know you do.”

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She pauses, sips, takes another deliberate breath. Tears line her unadorned lashes, seconds from slipping down her cheeks. 

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When she addresses him, it’s to his eyebrow, her girlish voice low and resolute. “But what the last year has taught me is that you resent me – you feel the need to _punish me_ – more than you love me. And I deserve better than that.”

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He’s too staggered to reply as she rises, words slicing him like the sharpest of Uncle Paul’s blades, quietly tucks her chair into the table and walks. Away from him. Away from them.

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Just away. 

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\-------------------------------

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She doesn’t come to the bridal shower in Ilderton. Neither does her mother or sister, but the Virtues’ first gift – three bottles of _magnifique_ French champagne – impresses even his surly bride. 

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When he opens the second gift, painstakingly wrapped in ivory with a delicate pink bow, he feels as if someone has crumpled his heart like an aluminum can. 

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It’s a painting in the breezy Parisian style she loves; he remembers strolling the cobblestone streets of the little art community she’d found near Ceret. There’s a small boy and a slightly smaller girl, hands loosely entwined, as they push clumsy blades over the ice. 

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They’re skating, depicted only from the back. One boy. One girl. Heads together, feet unsteady. Young and faceless, on a rink that could be anywhere in the world. 

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It feels like it’s sitting on his chest as he reaches a trembling hand to the note tucked into the corner of a rich, ornately carved frame that smells of fresh and earth. 

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“May your life be as perfect as that sparkling sheet of ice where you first met,” he reads shakily, picturing a tiny girl with too-large mittens in the place of the one in the painting. “Joy, happiness and love from the second partner to the first and last.” 

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He suppresses the urge to stomp that portrait into kindling, then torch it to bitter ash right in front of them. He wanted this, but he didn’t want _this,_ and it’s poisoning him from the inside, every time he turns to tell her something and she’s not there. 

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“How lovely,” Cara demurs, insipid, from his elbow, scribbling on a notepad for thank yous. “And so French!” She and Jackie exchange a look, but all he sees are his mom and Aunt Carol, grim in their foldable chairs. 

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“We’ll have to send them a nice thank you,” Jackie supplies, tearing at the next prize with businesslike precision. 

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Alma Moir speaks up from her table, voice even but surprisingly cool. “Yes, son, you will.”

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He wants to disappear. Once, his solace had been pair of battered skates and his partner’s warm hand, and though he still has one of those comforts, it’s of little use without the other.

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He nods, forces the corners of his mouth to move. 

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_I didn’t want this._

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\----------------

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The wedding comes and goes in a blaze of white and booze, and she doesn’t come. Casey and Kevin politely represent the Virtues, breezing past Scott and his bride with tight congratulations but warming up to the older Moirs.

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Tessa’s brothers don’t mention her. Scott doesn’t have the balls to ask. 

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He feels like he’s choking on the French champagne. 

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For the first time in 22 years, they don’t twizzle back to each other. 

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A few months after he becomes a husband, their final contract expires. No more free Hondas. They somehow muddle through the last event where they’re obligated to appear as Tessa-and-Scott/Canada’s sweethearts/Olympic gold medalists without a major snafu. He repeats the same anecdotes and she chuckles in the right places, but the playfulness that once made them sparkle is lost. 

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She was right, he thinks, trying not to scowl as she effortlessly ignores him without looking like it. He resents the hell out of her, but mostly he resents that she seems to be doing goddamn dandy without him now. 

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He always knew she’d be fine without him, though. 

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When the 3-inch heel of her ludicrously expensive shoe snaps and he offers his arm to steady her, she doesn’t even lose stride. Rather than let him help her – what’s a goddamn hand on his forearm to people who’ve been feeling each other up since they were kids – she dips into a corner and smashes the other heel. They’re not even close to being even, but if her remedy is to ruin overpriced designer shoes instead of leaning on her partner, then that’s her fucking problem. 

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After the cameras have disappeared, one of the Honda people ask about Beijing; apparently, he hasn’t gotten the memo. 

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Tessa’s smile is forced but bright as she puts a hand on Scott’s forearm – the same forearm she wouldn’t touch a few minutes earlier – and answers so sweetly that Scott can practically pinpoint the moment this marketing idiot falls in love with her. “Nice of you to ask, but it’s time for a new wave to represent Canada. Marie-France and Patch are working wonders with a team from Thunder Bay and, of course, there’s the French.”

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She drops her hand and he feels the loss acutely, damn it, despite himself when she continues with an almost saccharine edge, “Besides, Scott’s a newlywed. The last thing he wants to do is skate with an old partner.” She doesn’t even glance in his direction.

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He mumbles something acceptable, and as the group dissipates, she turns on uneven heels to make her exit. Without a word, a murmur of goodbye, even a scowl. 

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“Tess,” he entreats, failing not to sound clawingly desperate. “Let’s grab a coffee or something.” She doesn’t stop, only slows without turning back to him. “There’s a new wine bar around the corner.” 

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“I need to be somewhere,” she answers over her shoulder, businesslike and so unnaturally _cold_ that he feels like stomping his feet to get her attention. “Maybe another time.”

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No, no, _no._ If she walks away, when will he see her again? “Tessa,” he pleads, jogging to catch up. She finally halts, turns reluctantly to face him. Under the chic makeup and false lashes, her green eyes regard him warily. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

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For a fleeting second, he thinks she might; her eyes soften, mouth loosening from its set line. What she says before she pivots on a broken heel brings 22 years of trust, friendship, love rumbling to his feet. 

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“You wanted to be happy, Scott. Be happy.” _Fuck off._

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It would’ve been kinder if she’d stabbed him in the heart with the end of her jagged heel. 

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_ _\--------------------_ _

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_ _Ten months later, he spits sand and sunscreen on a beach in Jamaica when Jackie shoves her phone into his sunglasses. "Well, well. The ice queen just announced she's pregnant." She pauses, adjusts her barely-there bathing suit, her stomach still flat despite their attempts. "Did you know?"_ _

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_ _Scott stares at the image of his partner - the only real one, he knows now - somehow still chiseled yet rounded and as _luminous_ as he's ever seen her. He aches to touch the screen, as if it could transport his fingertips to her cheek. _ _

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_ _Tess and the new husband didn't waste any time, apparently. _ _

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_ _He turns from his wife, bangs over to the cooler to fetch a strange Jamaican beer. He unscrews the cap and replies, "Nope," in the same breath, then takes a deep pull. Two pulls. Three as he grabs his towel and heads for the surf, relishing the heat and mist on his cheeks as his toes sink. "I'm going in. You coming?"_ _

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_ _Jackie waves him off, burrowing into the lounger as she uses her next wave to summon a server._ _

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_ _He shrugs, tossing his sunglasses onto his towel as he wades into the ocean. The waves swirl with a smoothness that reminds him of the perfect glide._ _

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_ _He swims away. _ _

Away from her.

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_ _Just away._ _

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**Author's Note:**

> Finis. For now. Hoping this purges my unhealthy resentment.


End file.
